She drew her skirts a little aside, and I sat down, quite at the other end of the bundle of pelts, but nearer to her than I had been in many long days. Then, in a purposely didactic and argumentative way, I cited to her all the instances in history I could think of, winding up with Cleopatra and Ninon de l'Enclos, until by entering into the argument she had entirely forgotten herself and her embarrassment. Then suddenly into a little break in our conversation there came the clear whinny of Fatima. She was on the other boat, tied close to ours, and as we were in the stern and she in the bow, she had no doubt heard her master's voice and was calling him. I was greatly tempted to call her by the whistle she knew, but I did not quite dare. She would have broken all possible bounds to come to me in answer to that whistle, and I would not have been surprised to see her clear the space between the two boats.
"That was Fatima," mademoiselle said, and sighed a little.
"Yes," I said, "and I think I could tell what your sigh meant."
"Did I sigh?"
"Yes, and it meant, 'I wish it were Leon.'"
"Yes," she said; "I was thinking how much Fatima loves you, and Leon, too, as soon as he was able to forgive your disgracing him so. I think all dogs and horses love you, Monsieur."
"That is because I love them, Mademoiselle."
"Does love always beget love?"
"Not always, Mademoiselle; sometimes it begets scorn."
"Then I suppose the love dies?"